We were sitting by the pool in Rome

Discussing the small disappointments of the day --

Why our daughter wouldn't share her lamb,

Why the pasta al vongele was bereft of clams --

When the scent of bitter smoke filled the air

And a line of fire swept over the ridge behind us,

Lashing through the low trees and scrub oleander.

A little later we were waiting in line

To get a table on the terrace for dinner

Talking about a couple things

And not talking about a couple dozen other things

When my wife suddenly burst into tears

And covered her face with her hand as she

Fled through the polite palms and potted people.

What ignites the tinder of our lives,

Exploding our dry evasions and

Burning down to the things that last

A shard of ancient, stony laughter;

The need to voice hard thoughts?

When we finally arrived at the front of the line,

The matre d inquired: "Smoking, or not?"

Bruce Brown
Rome
July 1998